The Untold Sacrifices

By Ann Mariya Nedumthottiyil

“Hey Rahul, get up quickly, we shouldn’t be late to the airport.” my mother’s voice blurred my thoughts. My mind and eyes were at the horizon. I barely managed to sleep last night. My mom usually wakes me every day but today I was already standing at the window when the first rays of the sun arrived. I gained my senses again and went to the shower to clear both, my mental and physical selves. I spotted the keys which were hung on the wall as it was supposed to be. I had put them on the table last night; it is my mother’s duty to put all the things back to their right places and my hobby to displace them. She was ready and we were finally set to head to the airport to pick my dad who has been arriving from America.

I had kept the car started while she locked the house door and got in, taking her own time. I drove very peacefully. We were early and it is a two-hour journey to the airport. I must admit this; my mom is the most talkative woman whom I have ever known. But I was not listening to those talks. I was busy pondering over the memory of my first ride to the airport.

My father had gone to America when I was just two or three years old and had not cared to return until that day; it was his first holiday since then. We had a driver. He drove us to the airport. I was about five or six years old. It was the beginning of the summer vacations. I was extremely excited about the trip. As we reached the entrance of the airport, I saw a huge crowd waiting for their loved ones. Holding my mom’s hand, I saw a person coming and hugging her. With all my childish innocence and curiosity, I asked my mom “mom, who is this uncle?” They laughed at me, and my mom said the truth which was a little too much to understand. “No Rahul, this is your dad.”

I was a bit confused; things were different from now in those times, technology was still lacking the skills to show the face of our loved ones in one click. So yes, no video calling, I only heard his voice through the phone. So, it was not at all surprising that I did not recognize him on our first meeting after all those long years. It was his first leave after getting that job. As the days passed by, the number of picnics and rides to various places increased and they created a few sweet memories.

Two months went in a swish. He had to return to his work. I did not feel bad, because I have been under the care of my sweet mom and his absence never made a difference in my life. I attended my classes with a huge smile and boasted about my belongings. I was proud to show off all the things that my dad brought me from America. It included my watch with LED lights, to the branded shoes, that I wore with the casuals. Simple things like pencils and notebooks were also from abroad. I was very sure that no other child in my class had those things with them.

I suddenly heard a horn from behind my car while we entered the main road. When I looked outside, I saw a boy holding the hands of his parents. I missed this scene so much. When I was a schoolboy, all my friends came along with both their parents, while I held my mom’s hand and attended the parent’s teachers meeting.

I turned on the radio in the car and listened to a melody. Music had always helped me to drove away the negative thoughts and emotions.

I thought about my mother. She became a homemaker after her marriage. She worked as a teacher but after my birth she stopped her carrier. “Why should a woman go for work when her husband works abroad?” It was the usual question asked by my neighbours and relatives. I never understood the logic. Singing was her passion. But I wonder why she hadn’t done anything to improve her talent. When I matured enough to ask her that, she simply replied that singing was just a forgotten hobby.

I put the brakes straight away after seeing the traffic signal going red. The red light put a halt to my car as well as my thoughts. When we started moving again, I could see a board with the white bold letters saying ‘AIRPORT’ on the left side. I slowed down the car as we were nearing to the airport. We parked the car and waited outside the arrival section to receive him. An announcement flashed on the screen showing his flight to be an hour late. “Mom, we can go to the restaurant and have breakfast. The flight is late and now we have to wait for one hour before he comes.” She agreed to the plan. I got struck with another round of thoughts, which had kept me awake the whole night, when we waited for the food to arrive.

When I was a teenager, I had so many doubts about myself and felt insecure about not having my dad around me. Usually, a boy of fifteen needed his father more than a mobile phone or internet. At one point of time, I hated my father for not being there with me. But now I know that it was all the frustration of a teenager. After having the breakfast, we went back to the arrival section and waited for him.

Now in the twenties, I know how miserable his condition would be. At least I had my mom with me but for him, he only had strangers around him. He had friends, but not a family. I realized that he went there not for his satisfaction but for us, sacrificing his golden days with his family. He must have felt sad after every conversation he had with us on call. He must have felt bad to have missed all the beautiful moments with us. He must have wanted to be a caring father and a romantic husband, but all that he felt might be the miserable pain in his heart for not having the opportunity to do so. Sometimes, he was happy, because he had done it for the welfare of the family, for us. So, he could find some relief.

While I was thinking all this, I saw my dad coming out of the gate. He hugged my mom. She was crying with varying emotions flashing on her face. She had been eagerly waiting for this moment. He then turned to hug me, and I received it warmly. He kissed my forehead, and I saw that, happiness was seeping into my mind with all its calmness, and all of a sudden, I was at peace with my soul. At that moment, I decided that it was my time to make him happy for his sacrifices.

By Ann Mariya Nedumthottiyil